


the fresh press of mortar

by faorism



Category: Luke Cage (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Sitting, Human Furniture, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: In the sinking red Paradise light, Hernan poses for a Mariah crude with alcohol and her search for an outlet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> if you need additional context for the tags, an overview of the fic can be found in the endnotes. also there is links to the artworks i mention throughout the fic, if to you want to really see the works in your head as you read.

Late night at Paradise. Late enough that the staff wrapped up cleaning hours ago. So late the guards on C rotation lean against walls and ledges to support their tired feet, if they haven't just slumped into chairs between their rounds. When Shades walks into the main room, one of them nods with a meaningful enough look that he swings her way.

"Boss lady's pissed," she says.

They hadn't had anything planned and Mariah doesn't lose sleep for nothing if she can help it, but the lights shine dim and red through the office window.

"Know what for?"

Dymond shrugs no. She also pushes out her lip, glances off. It's a too obvious tell, one that'll cost her a promotion down the line if she don't cut it out. But she's new—part of the group of studs Mariah recruited soon after her start. She's still got permission to learn and time to grow.

Her weaseling out of his question is a habit he maybe shouldn't endorse, even to protect Mariah, but Shades appreciates the gesture of loyalty. He lets it go with a laugh.

"Thanks for the warning." He holds up the briefcase he spent the evening securing. "Stash this, and tell the others to steer clear of the lounge and office 'til I give the go-ahead."

As she goes off to complete her tasks, Shades jumps past every other step on the way to Mariah. He mentally runs through recent closeouts, current developments, and blossoming prospects searching for where a hitch could've made itself known. There's that Jersey deal that smelled fishy, but that was six months ago; the players would've acted already if something was gonna happen. The St. Marks Mercies' been hitting up Mariah, curious about the new direction; those girls can be a nightmare when crossed and their head (as much as you can be a leader to a ragtag group of mercenaries) often trips over her enormous ego. Shades also arranged a few should-be-routine exchanges this week; maybe a deal went sour? Then there's...

Nah.

It's no use guessing. Shades was Diamondback's crisis man too long to logic out what can upset a normal operation, and Mariah is as Mariah does. He knows her, but he can't anticipate her (and ha, how he likes that balance; craves it...).

So he smiles, wide and slick as he walks through Mariah's door, ready for whatever mess she brings him.

The red welcomes him. The red, with bowls and crescents of pitch black sunk into the curve of the room, the red, which he greets darker, thanks to his Ray Bans. Shades washes himself in it—this dim, toxic and soothing—and the sight of Mariah, hallowed dangerous as her phone's light casts violet onto her skin. From where she's perched on the desk ledge, she taps and taps and taps against the screen. In her other hand, vodka (a bad sign; vodka had a way of making her nostalgic) swishes bloody as she rocks her glass in small, lazy loops.

"Hernan."

He doesn't startle, some part of him expecting this (hoping for this). He pulls off his shades, and Hernan tucks them into his jacket with a quick gesture he's gotten more practice in in the past few months than he'll ever admit to anyone outside this sinking red. She follows the movement. Finishes her drink.

(How much has she had? The bottle… next to her, only two-thirds full. How long has she been drinking? Impossible to know for sure, but he hopes she's been teasing at that missing third all night.

Fuck. He'll have to play this by ear.)

"Good night?" She sounds calm, steady.

"The best, miss. Yours?"

Tap, tap: she hasn't looked up at him yet, and she doesn't answer him. He steps into the center of the room and holds himself still.

Limbs stiffen with the weight of anticipation. They shift.

A performance readies.

He moves to pose, remembering the statues at the museum Mariah took him to—or at least had him along for. She was scheduled for a meeting with a new client at the Met who bailed out last minute thanks to a case of eight bullets to the gut. Instead of leaving right away, they walked the twisting halls. Mariah moved with familiarity and Shades with a curiosity to see what drew her eye. Everything did, he learned, and it was like she knew every piece they passed judging by her running commentary. She indulged him: answered questions, didn't contradict his elaborate "explanations" of the abstract shit, and even chuckled when he curved his arms and bowed his legs as an Aphrodite. She, however, was quick to share her estimation of just how bad a statue Shades would make for all his slinking off into corners.

That night, when he undressed for her, Hernan held that same arching position for two hours as she read. He burned both from strain and the question of whether she was actually interested in his game. He got his answer days later, when Mariah handed him a packet of painting scans and photographed sculptures, each labeled with a name.

She told him to memorize the poses by that Friday. There'd be a quiz.

(He passed.)

He's in too much clothes now for anything to look real good, and without a firm direction, Hernan edges on the side of familiar. The Van Der Zee #3, one of her favorites. He sits down, his arms loosely holding up his knees. In the photo, the model stared off into a fire surrounded by plush comfort and an illusion of Harlem riches. Hernan feels the same, in this corner of Paradise still bouncing back, but the edge of something more crackles in the air around them.

He can't guess how long she'll keep him like this, but Hernan uses this precious moment to sink into the scene, the red, the fluttering of her hooded eyes as they flick across text. Inhales, heavy; exhales, slow. Everything slows as he prepares himself for this Mariah; a Mariah he imagined when he was fourteen, when he watched her organize a July 4th food drive and later jerked it to her low-enough-cut top; a Mariah who coulda had him quick, kneeling down in front of fuckall whoever if only she called him _dog_ again; a Mariah he now knows, who always matches her bras to her drawers, who's ticklish under her ribcage. She's the one who guards her attention jealously and only lends it out in exchange for utter devotion. It's a trade Hernan never hesitated to put in for, even now, as he waits for a Mariah crude with alcohol and her search for an outlet.

He wants her and every Mariah she will allow him to hold.

He wants her so fucking bad.

Body bearing the heaviness of his building desire, Hernan still has to wait another few minutes before Mariah even presses the lock on her phone.

(The red swallows her too.)

The sounds of the cell and glass against the desk as she puts them down are deafening. She meets his stare, and Hernan's heart trills over the restrained discomfort he finds in her eyes.

He would have dropped everything to ask her what's wrong but her hand juts out, out of reach.

"Undress."

Hernan reacts to the authority in her voice and the habit of obeying her now trained into his body. He crawls over to her as gracefully as he can, and it's quick work to pull off his jacket and give it over.

Shirt, after. Belt.

Shoes kicked off, socks yanked—

Eye contact maintained as much as possible, each movement revels in the utility of a strip without the tease.

—pants peeled off together with his boxers.

Hernan's watch, chain, and just-past-limp dick hang heavy in the presence of their silence. In Mariah's eyes Hernan sees only a whisper of the anger promised by Dymond, yet his hair still stands on pinpricks as Mariah lays his clothes in a neat pile at her side. She's exact in all things, especially now as she blossoms into her position as big boss. Mariah doesn't keep secrets from him nor does she lie. Her precision, though, lets her omissions stand as truths.

"Dillens."

He goes to his knees before her, ass pressed to his calves, cock and balls tucked along the crease between his thighs, and hands on his lap softly cupped with palms up and fingers half-threaded. The only change from the original is that he presents the left side of his face (not the right) to appease her and her dominant hand.

She hums at him, pleased, although she also reaches for her phone in a gesture he knows means she wants to draw this out.

Hernan can wait for her forever, usually, but he did have a long day and he needs to eventually sleep. And after whatever play Mariah's got planned—assuming she has a plan at all—he hopes to squeeze in a moment to talk through what has her fuming at dead o'clock in the morning.

(Also, that vodka is a temptation she won't refuse if they don't start soon, and he'll hate to stop this before they have a chance to get started.)

"Hit me," he urges, crisp and clear.

The first time Hernan asked this of her, he had sensed her hesitation at striking someone not out of rage, but affection. He didn't withdraw his suggestion, instead letting her imagine the action. Letting her think about the weight of her open palm, the sting of her skin against his skin, the redness blooming against the tawny stretch of his stubble cheek. She smiled near-bashfully when palm hit flesh, and Hernan thanked her even as she didn't pull back for a second go.

Now, she slides off the desktop and braces herself in front of him in a fluid motion. Her strike yields nothing as it forces his face further into his shoulder. The sharp pain falls over him like a bucket of ice, and he can't even laugh at his surprise as he processes her sudden brutality.

"Shut your goddamn mouth. Dillens."

He barely resets the position before she hits him again. Hard. 

"Dillens."

Hernan huffs at the strength of the third slap as it connects—god, and here is what he felt hidden. She lives for the build up, but she just bulldozed past any pretense of light foreplay. No flicks that barely make a sound, no gentle drags across his stubble as she aims her next hit, no pinches that focus the sting of a ghosted handprint to the size of a dimple. Her rush tells him what he needs to know: she's angry alright, her search for release egging on her power more than his begging ever did. 

He poses. 

She slaps. 

"Dillens." 

He holds himself off-position for a pause even as the heat of the strikes snaps him into an unthinking, primitive desperation for more sensation. 

She holds back to let him catch his breath, as Hernan asked her to do when they began the posing ritual. Her willingness to wait for him despite her night's impatience is both demanding and sweet; she refuses to repeat a command if she is sure he heard it the first time, after all. Mariah comforts in the knowledge that Hernan will always obey, so she gifts him the chance to set the pace. 

With how powerful she's working him over, at least he has timing to steer this exchange into one where they can both walk from it satisfied. 

After two long minutes, he gives her her Dillens. 

She welcomes it with another swing. 

"Dillens." 

Again. 

Pause. 

Pose. 

Slap. 

"Dillens." 

Pause. 

Maybe it's his fault for challenging her. Maybe she had a script with a clear point A to point B. 

But there's something honest in her viciousness. He can count the number of times he managed to convince her to go for his face, because she finds it distasteful for others to see the red—so red, sometimes so molten it bruises purple—of her hand. No matter how much he told her they'll think it was just a brawl, she never gave him what he begged for (on his face; his ass on the other hand…). 

This though, this is brutal and she's grunting with the effort of each throw. Gasping as Hernan takes a breath. They're both greedy for this: his cock grows hard in his lap, and Hernan is close enough he can almost taste the thick smell of Mariah's arousal through her skirt. 

Yes, it's all too 0 to 100 for his usual tastes… but let her get this out. 

Let her know the swell of her fingers from the counterforce. 

Let her watch as his face calls out to her in redredredred in deference. 

The Mariah he worships in this bloodnasty light has always been part-fantasy/part-potential, and now he moans as he poses and accepts another taste of a dream turned reality against his cheek. 

"Dillens." 

Pause. 

Pose. 

Slap. 

The power weakens slightly as Mariah goes on, but the ache flames higher and higher as it stacks upon itself. 

"Dillens." 

Pause. 

Involuntary tears thread through his lashes; they bead Mariah's beauty with a haze of rubies. Her hair flings around her cheeks with reckless abandonment. Her eyes shine glorious. 

Moan. 

Hernan wants her to feel as good as he does right now, wants her to be struck in awe with the vision in front of her, but he ain't no fool. Arms crooked for the next round and legs stiff to support feet held shoulder-width apart, Mariah is a goddess, but not one of those headless white marble chicks. She of Harlem brick. 

In his worship of her mercy he can catch the pleased shiver that courses through her when he draws himself up again. 

Pose. 

He closes his eyes to the sight. 

Slap. 

And he's already moving to reset as she demands—"Dillens." 

Slap. 

"Dillens." 

Pose. 

Slap. 

"Dillens." 

Pose. 

Slap. 

Moan. 

"Dillens." 

(The red.) 

Pose. 

(The sinking red.) 

Slap. 

"Dillens." 

He jerks into position, drawstringed to the satisfaction he hears in her voice. 

Pose. 

… 

… 

…pause? 

When the slap doesn't come immediately it unsettles him. 

… 

When the slap doesn't come after another minute… 

Then two… 

Then an agonizing three… 

Four… he cannot help his whine needing the follow through. 

"Please. I'm"—his voice scratches his throat hoarse as he struggles around the plea—"in Dillens." 

"Hernan." 

"Please." 

"Baby, look at your hands." 

It takes a moment to drag his eyes open to obey. When he does, surprise twists his mouth into a smirk. Instead of resting in a loose knot, Hernan's hands are fisted in his lap. Cut from red, the aching hungry red, they shake obscene and grotesque on either side of his turgid dick. 

Hernan tries to process what's happening, and realizes first off, his thought processes are slow, stupefied. 

Second, Mariah was right: this certainly ain't no Dillens. 

Third, he knows what a drop feels like and this isn't it, and he ain't spacing out either. It may be a bit of both… Maybe neither. All he knows is that he can't loosen his fists and can't stop the trembling throughout his body from where it starts deep in his core. 

Lastly, _fuck_ , he wants to come. 

"Mariah, I'm," Hernan manages after a moment, "good." 

A beat, as she recognizes the signal. "Okay, Hernan. Yes." Another beat, after which she brings a hand to him but only to gently run her fingers over his buzzed hair. "So good. You've been so good for me. You listened so well. Such a good boy you were for me."—"Always."—"Yes, always good. And you know when you're good you get what you need. Right? That's how we said this worked. You always get it when you behave so, so well. What you need now, sugar?" she asks. 

Hernan looks up to her. Mariah's expression has changed, softened somehow in a way that calms him through the haze. The frenetic anger has been replaced—no, temporarily displaced by her focus on attending him. Though immature and embarrassingly obvious, Hernan preens at the victory of distracting her. 

Mariah smiles, no doubt recognizing his shit-eating grin. "You need to finish me off, don't you?" she answers for him. 

"God yes." 

Her fingers brush over the curve of his ear as they move from his head to her blouse. Her fingers tease the light fabric as they work the buttons. Hernan's mouth goes dry as he sees the hint of a bra, then the edge of nylon where her tights end. 

"If you can loosen your fists up long enough," Mariah says shrugging off her shirt, "you can pull your weight." 

Permission granted to break the pose he never fully settled into, Hernan presses a kiss and "I think I can manage" to the shadow of her bellybutton. He plays with the bit of it as he pulls his hands flat against her ballet flats. He holds the shoes steady as Mariah steps out of them. Bends in half to kiss an ankle.

The scratch of his scruff catches on her tights. The elastic snaps back, inaudible, but the placebo touch is enough to sting a phantom against his cheek. Wary and excited by the tenderness of his bruise, his mouth butterflies up her calf and settles on the round of her knee. As he kisses her, his hands slide over her thighs to her ass to her skirt zipper. He delights as metal teeth scrapes metal teeth, and he removes his mouth from her only long enough to ease the skirt off. Then, it's at Mariah's knee again, at the width of her thigh, at the tights' seam over her panties. His tongue draws along the already-damp fabric, worshipping the texture and the promise of what is to come.

Mariah's reacting: her stance widens slightly to accommodate his exploration; her breath hitches when his fingers run from her hips down to the floor, then up again between her legs; he can hear dull friction of skin against skin as she undoubtedly rubs her sore palm against her breast. But just reacting isn't enough. Mariah should have scolded him for playing around, or pinched an encouragement to his ear, or pushed him away to finish getting undressed. Something. Anything interactive. 

It seems that he had not distracted her as successfully as he had hoped. 

She doesn't complain when he slowly presses one last kiss and pulls back to sit on his haunches. 

Their stop is on the tip of his tongue, not urgent but present as an emotional touchstone. He holds it there. Tastes the name they have only used to politely wrap up their scenes. He can end it now, sort through the mess, find his answer, logic out a clean solution. 

It is a choice. It is his choice to return to Dillens—ass to calves, face presented, cock between thighs, submission laid bare—but he only leaves his right hand cupped. With his left, Hernan reaches up and curls his hand around Mariah's elbow. He pulls her arm down. Holds her wrist, feels the pulse, holds her hand. Gently, he bows his head to kiss her knuckles and suck at them. Bite. 

To her middle knuckle, he whispers, "Love your hands."

A laugh like a dented bell, muted and tinny and grim, answers him. "Oh?" 

"Ain't the only thing I love." 

He begins on second knuckles. Her pinkie bends to the shape of his mouth easily. 

"What else?" 

"Your lips." 

"That it?" 

"No, miss." 

"What else, then?" 

"Your ears." 

"Ears." 

"They're cute." 

"And?" 

"Your puss—" 

Mariah squeezes his lips shut between her thumb and index finger. "Watch it." 

Hernan's eyes follow the rhythm of her curves to her neck, her face. She towers over him red, and their position distorts her expression somewhat. He can feel her tension as if it was his own. 

He nudges her fingers away. "I am watching." 

Their eyes lock, and he feels something shift. 

(His cheek aches constant and sharp and sterling hot.) 

Something frail and big. 

(His calves pinprick from supporting his Dillens for so long.)

Quiet.

"You want this." It's a firm statement, said with her usual unfailing confidence. Yet, the question beneath her politician's voice slips out in her body, in her crumpled expression, in the red hush between them, in her eyes… her eyes, christ. In them he sees the distraction but also vulnerability and the tenderness of her affection, and he drowns in them. In his eyes he can only hope she sees the answer she was fishing for: _you, Mariah, you. You, when you held a gun to me. You, as you conquer Harlem as its queen. You, since I was fourteen when all love was was who could make me blush like my face was on fire. You, my girl, Mariah. My girl._ Maybe that was too much to communicate in dilated pupils but he wishes she gets it anyway.

He tries to put all of it into a "yes" and feels he did a decent job judging by Mariah's sigh. Hernan kisses her wrist—"so much yes"—and lets his head fall forward to the cradle of her thighs.

"Hernan…"

"We stop on every no, you pause whenever I call you Mariah, we have an exit plan when we need to shut down quick. We got this. You got this."

She presses his head to her, and he breathes for a moment until he licks at her again. This time, her hips surge to meet him and her nails rake his head as together they slip off the tights and panty. Hernan fights the urge to come seeing her hair crushed to her cunt with how wet she is already.

He licks indiscriminately, heady, and she grunts, "Yes. Yes, I got you."

Lick.

"You got me."

Lick.

"I got you."

Suck—Mariah's lips swell out, swollen in soft red and shadowed black waves. He takes the ripple between his lips and rubs. It's a kiss he has to twist to reach for, but worth it for how Mariah shivers when he holds on and won't let go. He gets the ear-pinch he wanted earlier, encouraging him with the sweetness of broken glass.

Hernan touches her soft, soothing, anywhere he can reach while keeping his suction tight. The press of her thigh against his face makes him want to cry a little, but he only uses that to fuel his delight and her pleasure.

The pain keeps his awareness sharp to her every reaction. When she squats minutely, when he swallows as much come as he can collect, when she hisses as his teeth clips her lips, when she rolls her hips to direct him to her clit; he's there and ready to serve her. Her short but sensitive clit doesn't protrude far out from her slit in this position. Hernan makes due by squeezing her pussy together and tongue-fucking the crease. She jerks back but only finds herself trapped by the desk; Hernan follows her. The intensity will be too much and too imprecise to maintain for too long (she's gotta be feeling it in her teeth), but Mariah lets Hernan drag against her again and again until she shivers past one ecstatic plateau.

Mariah thrusts through it until she bottoms out, but Hernan ain't fool enough to stop immediately. She moans shamelessly as he slows down to give her a recovery period.

Eventually, however, Hernan has to pause to swallow a troublesome hair at the back of his throat just as he felt her lust boiling again. Mariah takes the moment to loosen her hold on his face to her cunt and huffs a near-incomprehensible "Wiley… Wiley #2, head to the desk, hands on me."

There's nothing elegant about the way Hernan twists around and drops to his right side. His half-asleep legs kick out, left crossed over right. He has barely laid back until his shoulder blades touch the floor before Mariah kneels over his face. With the top of his head flush to the desk, it's a tight squeeze to accommodate their pose but Mariah has a vision and she's gonna get it. She simply uses the desk ledge to keep her balance as she sits on his tongue.

When Mariah rides him, she wants him steady and open. There's little finesse on his part as Hernan sucks and licks along to her ebbs and flows. He just takes her fucking like he's taken every one of his slaps. Follows her obediently as she sets a brutal pace, one that shoves his tongue to her clit and then over lips into her hole with little time for breathing.

Soon, slick covers his face in a line between his nose to his chin until all he can taste and feel and smell is Mariah. Hear… skin on skin, obscene slurps, nails scratching the desktop, and Mariah—always Mariah, who hums appreciations peppered with the occasional demand or "baby, there, _yes_."

And from the sliver he sees past her mound and stomach, her breasts bounce pretty and elegant. One she grasps, teasing the nipple. She moans long and hard as she pulls at the nub while her clit catches on his nose at a good angle. Mariah's got the most sensitive chest of anyone he's ever fooled around with, and the eagerness with which she handles it electrifies him with desire. The urge to bite her tit floods his mouth with spit—as if things couldn't get more wet. His mouth seals over her hole in a kiss to direct his sudden oral fixation, but his greed overlays the feeling with the memory of the last time they fucked; he spent an hour working over her breasts until his lips puckered numb and tender.

Tag teamed, the two sensations overwhelm Hernan. He ruts into air, his neglected erection reminding him of its urgency. He thanks every saint he can think of that orgasm denial hasn't occurred to Mariah yet, because he can freely move a hand from Mariah's ass to his cock. He palms the head. Pre-come welcomes him, coating his hand and easing his grip as he secures it around the base.

He grunts against Mariah as he jerks. He can feel each pull of air become more shallow as he stutters the balance between eating Mariah out and servicing himself. His chest hiccuping, he tries to just hold his tongue out for her.

Mariah, no doubt sensing his turning inward, drops her hands from the desk and her tit to frame his hairline. His face is caged by Mariah—hands, thighs, cunt, ass pressing lightly into his neck as she shifts backward. She sits again, lining up her clit perfectly with his mouth before grinding down.

"Suck."

He does. He sucks and he fucks his hand and he surrounds her clit with a seal formed with the tight pucker of his lips. She holds to her position and holds his head in position and she won't notice if his legs break Wiley but he holds it because he'll know. She throws her head back when he forces his tongue flat to her—pressing and pressing; his jaw is sore and his cheek hurts so much he might have lost feeling in it.

Mariah's pussy muffles his shout as he splatters his waiting hand with spent. Hernan whimpers through his orgasm.

He wants to blackout, he wants to go to sleep, but he pockets his relief because Mariah keeps sinking deeper and deeper into his mouth. In the alcove between desk and body and body, the red and black shimmer with the edge of unconsciousness.

She's close: her twitching movements declare her desperation for one final climax. When his tongue's beat cannot find the edge to push her over, Hernan cheats. He wipes most of his come off his palm onto his stomach, and then brings it to her ass. He rubs the fat of it as warning before pulling back as much as he can and spanking her. Mariah curses at impact. The slightly come-tacky second and third hit follows in quick succession, and that's what does Mariah in. She cries bloody murder and jerks harsh to both escape and embrace the attention to her clit. Escaping wins out, and she rocks back to drop her weight onto his collarbone. Three-fourths choking, Hernan moans and switches to licking her in light, long strokes across whatever he can reach. Mariah trembles in the aftershocks, trembles as he carries her through from too much sensation to something pleasant.

"So good," Mariah reassures him, angling her body to allow his calming touch. "Good."

He's beyond speech, letting his silence rest into in the taste of her without hurry. He luxuriates in the muted bliss of come drying on his stomach with Mariah above him, Hernan below her, red the red the deep dark red eclipsed with their stricken afterglow.

They rest as he licks.

Rest.

And lick.

Rest.

And lick.

And rest.

And lick.

Rest.

Pause.

Rest.

And doze.

Rest—

He barely notices Mariah finally stand, stretch, and reach for something on the desk.

"Akunyili Crosby, couch."

He nearly refuses, too comfortable and ravaged to think of moving; didn't he already give so much?

Luckily, his mind is white space, and the command is absorbed as an action as necessary as any automatic function. Getting up on his knees is blinking, each measure of his crawl is a swallow, his pulling himself up on the couch is both flight and fight, laying down with his legs hanging off the side is as simple as a yawn.

Hernan can't time how long it takes Mariah to join him since he drifts off the second head hits cushion. When he comes to, a cold wet cloth swipes his belly clean. Another rests against his left cheek.

His head rests in Mariah's lap, and she leads gentle caresses along his hairline. She has on his button-up.

"We need to ice this."

Mariah would have to make herself presentable and fetch some downstairs. Hernan struggles with his numb lips and tongue and cheeks and throat but eventually, slowly, replies, "It'll be ugly no matter what tomorrow." _Stay._

Mariah drops the come rag (which looks suspiciously like his sock) to the floor and settles back into the couch. She pulls a crocheted blanket he's never seen before over him. It's moth bitten and even in red the colors look faded, but it's soft and warm. Not the kind of thing Mariah would ever buy herself, and the idea of her fiddling with a needle over a year-end budget is laughable.

A gift? An old one, when she was young enough to still be sentimental. Now, very likely brought to the office specifically for him.

Of all things they've done tonight, this one thoughtful gesture is what makes Hernan blush.

Thankful, he curls into the blanket as much as he can within Akunyili Crosby. He fades in and out of his afterglow and sub bounce-back, listening to Mariah's voice soft as she tells him what a loyal boy he's been. Listened to every order the right way, he did. Kept his tongue fucking her the way she needed the whole time—that's her Hernan, so good.

Her praise nearly lulls him to sleep again, but then Mariah accidentally pushes against his sore cheek too roughly. He cries out half in pain, half in pride at how well he did to earn it.

She looks shaken suddenly, ready to spring away. She snaps her hand back, apologizing so rapidfire and elaborate she doesn't even notice she's calling him Shades every other time.

Pause.

Mariah doesn't mix up his names, not like this. She Hernan's him after a scene just wraps up, Hernan's him when they are alone and an argument gets tense. But never does she invoke the persona here. She was the one who reminded him there was an underneath; she knows what it does to him to hear she alone commands his given name.

To slip up…

Enough.

"Are you going to tell me what's got you spooked, or am I gonna have to go downstairs to find Dymond so I can shake it out of her?"

Mariah looks indignant but not spurned. He can sense a distraction building, but then she shrugs. Resigned to the truth she doesn't feel like carrying alone.

"Got a call earlier tonight from Cedric. Said he needed a loan until he could liquidate to make bail."

"Bail?" Cedric is college-educated, light-skinned, always dressed in sports jackets over tailored jeans, and knowledgeable about an array of random boring shit, so rich white people love him. They never notice him gouging prices as he comments on seasonal granola taste palettes. They're not Paradise's main clientele, but Cedric is dependable and it doesn't hurt to expand their influence past Harlem and closer to the park and the Westside. Who would have been stupid enough to report their dealer when—

"Apparently, his 'lying bitch of a niece' told her counselor that the reason she's failing is because every time her mom's got the graveyard shift, her uncle slithers into her bed."

Hernan immediately moves to sit up but Mariah holds him down with a reminder: "Akunyili Crosby."

He remembers Mariah's screams the night everything went good in the world (except for her cousin). He knows what this means to her.

Hernan sinks into the pose.

Not sure how to comfort her, if he even should, frustration needles Hernan as he realizes the extent that the hired muscle don't tell him nothing. Months in, they still think he's a contractor come to tattle if they run amok, or they think he's an ornamental toy who bends over for Mariah's every whim (true, but not the whole story). The few who are clever enough to see what he really is to Mariah—mentor, business partner, shield, attached—are also clever enough to not let out a peep around him. Their work breeds little friendships, and that is as true for Hernan here as it ever was on the streets, in Seagate, or under Diamondback.

Very few would brag about an act like Cedric's, but to not have heard a whisper of this beforehand is a mark on Hernan. Mariah shouldn't find shit out like this. He'll be better. Do better.

This won't happen again.

Mariah sighs before he can come up with a response more substantial than _I didn't know_. "I told him to rot. But… I asked around, and the girl was smart enough for Bronx Science. A super star in her classes, until about last year when he picked up babysitting duty. Now what?" She clicks her teeth. "What's the point of all this if I can't protect our future leaders from my own men?"

Harlem runs through both their veins, but where Hernan had found a well to drain, she has shown him a mill to turn her vision ever forward. He loves that about her and falls in love a little more whenever he sees her on the news or at a rally: however practiced the rhetoric, her sincere belief in the people here shines through. She believes in Harlem beyond greed, believes in the streets and the brick and the concrete and the veins stripping across telephone poles and the goliath artery that is the MTA.

There's an aching need to build a legacy somewhere in there, but the bulk of what drives Mariah is an earnest sense of responsibility, obligation. She tried to do it by the straight and narrow, but now he has her. He can show her what can done and done quicker with a gun and a threat or two. They can do this right… they can be what she sees…

Soon, they will be great.

The greatest.

"Don't panic, but…" He sits up until his face is level with hers. She lets him. "Basquiat."

Hernan's a mirror for the work she's got hanging on the wall, although the artist's style gives him some leeway with interpretation. In the end it's all about serving face: eyes tight, crown of strategic thought molded to his cap. With the stop said but exhausted afterglow still buzzing despite the grim news, he hovers in a space between Hernan and Shades.

It takes her longer to slip into the same space between her Mariahs, but she finds it.

When her eyes flare flinty and clear, he leans into her.

"We'll make him into an example. We don't tolerate that anymore." He kisses her jaw like an asper clasp. "It ain't snitching to tell, we'll tell them. Just clearing out Cottonmouth's trash. He let too much slide, and we won't have any of it because we're part of something bigger. Not running around like bullies. Not thugs for hire, but guardians of the streets."

Hernan slings a hand behind her neck and draws her close. He bites at her pulse.

"Alex better watch out, you'll be after his job with slogans like that," she teases, humor trickling back, but not enough that Hernan feels the need to jive back.

Instead, they hold the moment.

Hold.

Held.

Pause.

Breathe.

Pause.

Finger dragging along his jawline.

"Are you sure about the ice?"

Pause.

Breathe.

"Can we just lay here for now?

Breathe.

Palm against his head.

"Of course."

Touch.

Pause.

Breathe.

Touch.

Pause.

Breathe.

Touch.

Pause—

Admittedly, he does want the ice.

But not enough to draw away from her lap or blanket. He will need to tell her that if she knows she'll hit hard, she needs to prep by bringing something to soothe her strikes. And there's other things, too. He will tell her not to drink before a scene; even a little makes him nervous. He will suggest that maybe next time, tell him what's wrong ahead of time; he won't say no, but Hernan likes to know what he's up against. And he will praise her for her power. Thank her for her blanket. Brush his hand against hers, just cause.

But not now. Now, Mariah dips her head to touch their lips together. They kiss.

He hasn't washed out the come out if his mouth, so it is her own taste she kisses into. Mariah won't mind that he tastes of her because he is hers: in her mouth it becomes a token of affection as real as any blossoming rosy bruise or bottle of wine spilt in the name of trust.

An echo sounds, somewhere in the back of his throat: _she's still got permission to learn and time to grow._

In the red, without the pretense of their play, and within the shadow of an unfolding strategy, Hernan settles soundly within Mariah's hands, trusting her to do right by him even when she stumbles. He pours that trust into the kiss, as a promise.

He will not only wait for her to rise; he'll ensure it.

—Breathe.

  


**Author's Note:**

> a special thank you to my precious wife [calciseptine](http://calciseptine.tumblr.com/), who took a moment away from her two silly ice boys to edit this fic. and ya catch me at my [personal tumblr](http://faorism.tumblr.com) or my (rarely updated but existent) [fanwork one](http://faorismwork.tumblr.com).
> 
> the pieces referenced throughout the fic are listed below. the last one should be familiar, but i find the link hilarious because even if selling the piece would solve her financial problems, if mariah somehow got her hands on a basquiat like _hell_ she's letting anyone take it. wouldn't sell it even over her cousin's dead body which is so hardcore art aficionado, and i love her for it and you should too.
> 
>   * julien dillens, [figura tombale (1885-1889)](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Julien_dillens,_figura_tombale,_1885-1889,_00.jpg). 
>   * james van der zee, [nude by fireplace (1923)](http://pictify.saatchigallery.com/854946/the-world-of-old-photography-james-van-der-zee-nude-by-fireplace-1923). 
>   * kehinde wiley, [femme piquée par un serpent (2008)](http://kehindewiley.com/works/down/). 
>   * njideka akunyili crosby, [i refuse to be invisible (2012)](http://njidekaakunyili.com/work/nwantinti). 
>   * jean-michel basquiat, [red kings (1981)](https://www.inverse.com/article/21713-luke-cage-jean-michel-basquiat-black-mariah-harlem-s-paradise).
> 

> 
> ( _additional context for tags_ : mariah is triggered by the news of one of her guards getting locked up for molesting his niece. she uses bdsm to process her anger, which is alright by shades even if he is unsure of the context. as a new practitioner, however, she performs some bad etiquette such as drinking alcohol beforehand. shades knows he can stop at any time and chooses not to. he enjoys himself greatly as he poses erotically and gets his face slapped hard and repeatedly.)


End file.
